


Raspberry Morbs

by Willowanderer



Series: Before they were Roommates [2]
Category: Sanders Sides, Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Mummies, Vampires, Victorian setting, grave desecration, inuendos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willowanderer/pseuds/Willowanderer
Summary: From Victorian Slang"Bit o’ Raspberry: An attractive girl, originally a raspberry jam as this was considered the most flavoursome of preserves, so the prettiest of the girls were a bit o’ raspberry.""Got the Morbs: A temporary melancholy."Remy Coucher, party boy, Frenchman, invert and vampire is about to make a new friend at a party he was unfortunate to host.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Sleep | Remy Sanders, Sleep | Remy/OMC
Series: Before they were Roommates [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1569988
Comments: 62
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

It was tacky as hell, and Remy wondered why he was even there. 

Well, because he’d been invited, and a party was a party, they needed a place to host it, and part of him was curious. 

They were going to unwrap a mummy. 

The other boys were tittering and nervous, their experience with corpses usually limited to their granny’s funerals. Remy was a little more well versed. He’d been dragged to war, and his life had ended in a camp follower’s arms. He’d been dead for almost a century, and liked England a bit more than France. He loved hanging around with these boys. They were silly and flighty, and flirty to boot. That was why he’d lent his house for the party.

Well technically it wasn’t _his_ house, he was renting it from another vampire who’d had to duck down and reset their estate. But close enough. For all intents and purposes, he was a relative who’d inherited the house. And he was hosting the party. This very weird, very awkward party. Mummies, they were learning were not designed to be unwrapped. But the bandages came off anyway, in rolls and clumps. Sometimes an amulet would appear between the layers, and the boys split them up. Like Remy had thought, tacky, but no less so than knocking off men’s hats in the streets and keeping them, which he had participated in. Sure they were technically desecrating a dead body, but technically he did that almost every night. Well, if he got lucky. 

Remy laughed at his own joke, arm draped over one of the more timid boys who didn’t want to touch the body. Ernest snuggled up comfortably in a way Remy appreciated. Speaking of desecration. Or, he supposed, dinner. Either would be delightful. Both was good. 

They’d reached skin, the last few wraps sticking even worse, but with a little effort they were loosened and tossed aside so they could get a good look at the mummy’s face. There were curls of hair clinging to the skull, and the skin was remarkably well preserved, though slightly leathery and stiff. 

“Good bone structure.” Tittered Hugh. 

“Friendly looking chap!” agreed someone else- Remy wasn’t sure of their name, he hadn’t met them before, and he made a mental note to target him later. 

“Ten pounds to anyone who kisses our new friend on the mouth!” There were various sounds of disgust, and Remy finished his cup of wine before strutting over. 

“Hey good looking.” he addressed the mummy. “Ten pounds is ten pounds.” And delicately, he laid an open mouth kiss on the slightly parted dried lips. There were hoots and hollers behind him, and he smirked, giving an extra smack for emphasis, before turning away and holding out his hand. 

“Oh come now!” clearly no one had been supposed to take the bet. 

“Ten pounds my chum, unless you want to give a pound of flesh instead.” Reaching out he tickled the boy under the chin playfully, making him giggle and pull away, just a trifle too slowly to make Remy think he was actually bothered. Well that was something to bear in mind for later. This night was turning out to be more fun than he’d thought it would be. 

“Aren’t you afraid of the mummy’s curse?” asked Hugh. 

“Sounds dreadfully dull, chappie.” Remy snorted. He patted the mummy’s leathery shoulder. “Our new friend’s a good fellow, don’tchu think? No call for anything like that. I think we should all be more afraid of the vinter’s curse.” 

And the room filled with laughter as they all drank to that. 

Now that the mummy was unwrapped, the boys lost interest, and devolved into normal drunken shenanigans. Remy resigned himself to disposing of a dead body. Maybe he’d just box it up with the wrappings and stick it somewhere? It wasn’t as if the mummy was going to start to smell or anything. 

It was just past three, and Remy had tucked Ernest into a cab back to his lodgings, sleepy and sated and mildly debauched. The other boys had dissipated a bit after midnight, Remy suspected to a brothel, but he’d been able to have his fun a bit closer to home. And perhaps more to come, given the somewhat jealous expression of the gent that still owed him ten pounds.

Remy giggled to himself, licking his lips as he locked up the door behind himself. It was far too early for him to think about trying to sleep, but normal humans could lack vigor late at night. He’d have kept Ernest all night, but it was better to think of the kid’s reputation. Treated well, he’d certainly come back for more. He chuckled to himself, thinking over that possibility, and licked his lips again. He yawned, and shook his head, heading towards the stairs. 

Remy froze between one step and another.

Something was moving in the house. 

Behind the smoked glasses he was still wearing, he closed his eyes and tipped his head, listening. It was bigger than a mouse or a rat, and moving too slowly to be a cat. He put his foot down silently, and kept listening. Foot steps. Slow and uncertain. Someone was in his house. Had one of the boys passed out in a corner and he hadn’t noticed? Or wandered off and fallen asleep in one of the rooms? The breathing sounded _off_ somehow.

Sliding his feet along the floor to avoid making sounds, Remy followed the sound, the footsteps were definitely stumbling and something sounded off about the heart beat as well. He passed the dining room, and the door to the drawing room creaked open, slowly. The faint light of a single gaslamp was still burning in there, and a shadow was cast into the hall. It moved past without moving into the hall however, and Remy ghosted over to the door. The door jam creaked and the figure, dark and small turned to face him. 

“Oi, chap, we met?” Remy called. The figure moved towards him, and light fell on it’s face.

The mummy reached out towards him.

And fortunately, no one was there, so Remy wouldn’t have to lie to anyone about the fact that he screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy makes nice with his unexpected guest.

The mummy screamed back which probably would have been terrifying if it hadn't leapt back like a granny seeing a mouse. It crashed into a sideboard and patted at it as though it was looking for something before focusing back on Remy. It leaned forward, patting at the sideboard, but not focusing on it. Hissing out words in a dry whispery voice and a language Remy didn’t understand, it lurched towards him, limbs stiff. Remy backed up, sadly missing the door, and instead hitting the wall which he slid along as the creature continued to move towards him. 

“Hey, there, no hard feelings my guy?” 

The head tipped again, and there was another hiss of words; slightly different. 

“You wouldn’t speak English no, that’d be too easy.” laughed Remy weakly. “<Any French?>” Remy asked hopefully. It paused, then continued to jerkily move towards him. “Ah, of course not.” He groaned at the blank expression on the creature’s face. It said something again- maybe the same thing? It was hard to tell the voice dry, whispery and cracking. Quiet and hard to make out. Remy could bet he had a pretty similar expression on his face as the upset rictius the creature had going on. It said something else.

“Oh hell.” Remy put a hand to his head, holding the other out, one finger extended- a fairly standard gesture for ‘hold on’ “That’s latin wait wait, I remember this from school…” he snapped his fingers a few times, trying to remember. 

The dark figure tipped it’s head at the noise, and stopped, though it leaned towards him.

“Latin.” it repeated with an accent. “ _ Latine loqui _ ?”

“Aahhhh  _ et unde venerunt _ ?” Remy tried. “ _ Quid tu _ , Brute?”

The figure patted it’s own chest, then its lips, bits of bandage stuck to its’ skin. Other than that it was naked, of course it was. 

“ _ Sitio _ .” it croaked. “ _ Vinto, aqua sitio _ …” 

“Oh you’re thirsty-” backing up a bit, Remy found a mostly empty bottle of wine on the side table, and a used glass that hadn’t been gathered, he poured the wine into it, and offered it over, chewing on his lip “O.K. ah-  _ hospitum _ ? Fuck-” the dried leathery fingers brushed his as the dark figure took the glass and awkwardly raised it

“ _ Et santius tua _ -” it croaked, and drank the wine. Remy leaned back against the wall. This was a fucking walking corpse. This was the mummy. He swore in French. He was so cursed. Again. 

“Gaul?” asked the mummy tipping its’ head to the side. No, not its’- his. He said something in Latin again. 

“Cheek!” sniffed Remy before he remembered that was an old name for France. “So you recognise a little French huh? Maybe we’ll get by.” He raked his hands through his hair. “ _ Quid… quid vis? _ <what do you want?>” he repeated his shaky latin with what he hoped was the same phrase in French. 

The mummy touched his face, his lips, and then stretched out an arm, holding out the wine glass, trembling. 

“ _ Sitio. _ ” he repeated. 

“Right, right, O.K. Stay here, pidge.  _ Maneat hic _ . I’ll whip right back.” Remy motioned with his hands, a kind of suppressing movement, and then dashed. 

His stop was a little shaky and he slammed into the kitchen cabinets. It wasn’t a room he used a lot, but the hired cook had been in here, so there were leftovers from the party, and a kettle on the hob. Did mummies drink tea? He had to get on it’s good side, he couldn’t be cursed further, he’d simply collapse. He might collapse anyway. Remy’s hands shook as he measured tea leaves into the pot. 

He didn’t know anything about mummies, except they were ancient dead people who’d been buried real fancy. Sure, Egypt had been all the rage, but he wasn’t really  _ interested  _ in it. He wasn’t even interested in  _ modern  _ burial practices. This mummy had been brought into his life in a plain wooden crate, bandages already disarranged on the outer layer. He wasn’t the one who’d get cursed, right? 

He found another bottle of wine, on the cheaper end, he was pretty sure it was a gift, but he opened it anyway. The cork shredded in his finger nails, and Remy took a gulp from the bottle, letting the bitter tannin- a red, then- wash the taste of panic from his mouth. 

“It's just a dead man.” Remy insisted to himself, forcing himself to treat the bottle gently and not slam it down. “I’ve had drinks with plenty of dead men. I bet he isn’t even as thirsty as Emmet was.” He jumped again as the kettle let out a whistle, and he poured the water into the pot. Remy took another gulp of wine. Any calm his pleasant evening with Ernest had left him with was gone. 

The shuffling sounds had ceased. Remy paused- had he hallucinating the whole thing? 

No- now that he was listening, he could hear a faint rasp of labored breathing. It was still there. 

Oh God, why didn’t he know more about mummies? He didn’t even know anything about this mummy. Was it a king? A prince? Mummies were Egyptian right? Why was it speaking Latin? What did it want? Was he going to have to figure out how to re-wrap a goddamn mummy?! He put the pot on a tray with cups and a sugar pot, not bothering to find cream or lemon; he probably had some somewhere, but honestly, he just wanted to bring the mummy something to drink before it came looking. 

In the parlor, the mummy was tipping a chair back and forth thoughtfully. He looked up when Remy entered the room. From the looks of things he had also investigated all of the empty wine bottles, which were now neatly lined up against the crate full of tattered bits of bandages. When he moved there was a rasp like badly tended leather. 

“Sitio, right?” Remy offered, pouring tea into a cup and shoving it at him. It was strange how little details stood out to Remy; dark and leathery, the nails of the hand that reached out to delicately pick up the china cup were carefully trimmed and smoothed. He drank down the tea thirstily, and pressed stray drops into his lips with the pad of his thumb. 

“ _ Aqua? _ ” he asked, peering at the cup, then pointed at the bottle on the tray. “ _ Vino.”  _

“A man with taste I see.” Remy said cordially, and his hand only shook a little as he filled a wine glass. The mummy studied it, and took the bottle from Remy, only to pour a second glass, and set the bottle down between them. 

Remy sat back in the chair, and gave a laugh. 

“Alright then.” He picked up the glass and offered the mummy a toast. Though the movements were a little rough, the mummy returned the gesture. 

Both the bottle and the kettle were empty soon enough. Most of it went into his ‘guest’. Remy could see the pale whites of the mummy’s eyes as it looked around the room, then back to him. Remy had played the point and name game with things, but it hadn’t gone much further than trying to get him to understand ‘tea’ meant what was in the pot, not the pot. And cheekily enough the mummy had started repeating the word, then latin, then the other two languages. Remy had retorted by adding French. Frankly it wasn’t great for communication. 

Remy sighed, and the mummy mimicked him. 

“Still thirsty, pidge?” Remy asked. 

“Thirsty. Assoiffé.  _ Sitio _ .” The mummy repeated. He looked at his skin, and frowned, the expression much more visible than his expressions had been an hour before. Remy wondered if he was just getting used to the way it looked. The mummy ran his hands over his own skin, and the expression was easy to read, frankly. 

“Don’t like being a dirty boy?” Remy joked, and patted him gently on the shoulder. “I have good news, chum, this house has the most  _ sinfully  _ modern bath I have ever seen!” 

The mummy cocked his head as Remy stood. 

“Lave? No wait uh…  _ perlou. <a bath> _ ” 

The mummy rattled off a full sentence, sounding excited, rubbing at his skin again. Remy was fairly sure he heard the same word repeated. 

“Like the idea of that eh?” Remy shook his head, laughing. “Well, I suppose you’ve got all that stuff on you that made the bandages stick.” He swept his hand out, then realised that might be taken the wrong way, of course, beckoning might as well. “Follow me.” he took a few steps, then looked over his shoulder, and took a few more. After a moment, the mummy seemed to get the idea, and got to his feet, following Remy down the hallway. Wine was apparently great lubrication no matter the target, since he was moving much more smoothly than the earlier shuffle. 

Which Remy found fortunate, because as much as he’d calmed down about this whole thing, if he’d had to carry the mummy up the stairs to the bathroom, he’d probably freak out and run for the hills.

“It’s got this furnace in the basement, and hot water runs through the pipes and keeps the rooms warm!” Remy explained. “Johan had it done right before he had to reset. So part of it runs through this water tank, which gets filled from a cistern on the roof.” He was absolutely sure the mummy was following none of this, which was fair, because Remy wasn’t exactly sure how it worked himself. The mummy was going around touching everything, the towels, the tile, the wardrobe, the soap. He peered into the loo, and started to reach in but Remy caught him in time, dragging him over to the tub instead, which was already filling with hot water from the cistern. He immediately played with the tap, turning it on and off, then stuck his hand under the water, and pulled it back, looking at Remy with an excited expression.

“I know, right?! Now let’s see, soap, soap…” He picked up a bottle thoughtfully. “I think some bath oil, because no offence, pidge, you’re looking a little chapped.” He laughed to himself. “Let’s see, what’d Johan leave? Hrm. Sandalwood? Bergamot?” Remy sniffed at it. “Well that’s … floral. Oooh- Lotus flower? What the fuck is that? You guys like Lotus right? Or was that the Greeks?” 

“ _ Graeca _ ?” asked the mummy, tipping his head. His hair was really stuck to the scalp, like a cap. Remy remembered there being… less of it, but he supposed he could be remembering wrong. He poured the bath oil into the water. The heat wafted the sickly sweet smell up into the air, climbing with the steam. 

“The Greeks then? Good to know, climb on in, pidge.” The gesture must have done it, because the mummy did, sitting in the water as the level rose, and relaxing back. It started to sing- croaking at first, but getting more clear as it went on. Remy had no idea what the mummy was singing, but it was pretty.

“More a nightingale than a pigeon eh?” he laughed. The mummy laughed back, splashing at the water like he was slapping a table. Remy dropped a bar of soap and a cloth into the dish. “You have fun with that, I’ll be back in a few, gonna see if I can scrape up something for you to wear; bandages are no longer a la mode, you know.” The song started back up as Remy left the room. He had no idea what the mummy was singing, but it sounded happy. 

He was fairly sure that none of his clothes would fit his… guest. The mummy was shorter and slighter. But a shirt wouldn’t be too bad- and a quick search in a guest bedroom produced a waistcoat and pants that wouldn’t be too long, even though they didn’t match. Remy tossed them on the guest bed, and rubbed his eyes, checking his watch.

“Ha.” he muttered to himself. At least that was a few hours down that he didn’t have to think about what to do with himself. Much later and the daystaff would be coming in, so better that he get everything at least a little settled first. 

Remy flashed down the stairs and into the study, a room he’d only ever used to have scandalous quickies during dinner parties, but was full of books. A quick search turned up an English/Latin dictionary, so he’d be able to use simple words, and who knew, maybe he remembered more of it than he thought. He tucked it under his arm and went back up the stairs. The stream of song had stopped.

Rapping on the doorway, he stuck his head into the still steaming bath room. 

“How are you doing, nightingale? Did you dissolve?” he called. 

“Pidge?” responded the mummy’s voice. 

Remy laughed. 

“No, I’m Remy. Uh-” he pulled the dictionary out “ah, here we are,  _ meum nomen _ \- ha-  _ meum nomen _ Remy. <My name is Remy>.”

The mummy muttered something that Remy didn’t catch, half hidden in the fragrant steam, low in the tub. 

“Remy, Pidge.” 

“Close enough. You clean?” he flipped through again. “ _ Mundus _ ?” 

There was a sigh, and the mummy stood up, shedding water. 

Remy had to take a step back, shocked. 

Gone was the gaunt, emaciated figure, sticky and patchy, with wisps of thin hair. His hair was full, curls of black brown, the body smooth and slightly muscular.

The mummy was a right bit of jam. More of a statue than a dog chew. Incredibly good looking. 

Remy was so screwed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with apologies to anyone with an actual grasp on latin
> 
> Remy's a bit of a waste of skin, I fear. But a nice enough chap. 
> 
> find me at thebestworstidea on tumblr~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> again, I apologize for the terrible latin

It was certainly easier to look at the mummy now; Remy had to admit. After his initial shock, he swept the revelation to the back of his mind- mostly because the mummy tripped getting out of the tub. Rather than let him splatter his brains on the tile, Remy had jumped forward to catch him. Once back on his damp feet, the mummy flashed a smile with surprisingly white teeth, patting his shoulder. Remy didn’t understand what he said, but he was fairly sure he’d been thanked. 

The mummy was darker skinned than he was, which wasn’t terribly surprising. Even before he was a vampire, Remy had a redhead’s complexion, luminously pale, though what freckles he’d had before were faded now. The mummy’s skin was more of a dusky olive-tan. Up close he still had a sort of lean and hungry look, and looked exhausted, but at least he looked like a human now, instead of a corpse. Remy couldn’t quite forget but it helped him put it out of his mind. 

The mummy yawned, but leaned over turning on the tap and drinking a handful of water. 

“ _ Ego sum, quare pressit _ ?” he shook his head. 

“O.K. Sure.” Remy agreed. “Come things way, would you?” he led the mummy down the hall to the guest room. 

It was just a town house, so while it was well appointed, it wasn’t that big, holding not much more than a bedroom set, and looking full. Realising that he’d just been moving around in the dark, Remy lit the gas fixture in the guest room, making the mummy gasp, looking around himself, wrapped in a towel like a cape. He was arrested suddenly by the gilt-framed mirror over the dressing table. 

“ _ Pulchra _ .” He breathed, reaching out to touch the glass.

“Oh I know that one-” Remy said. “Beautiful, huh? You think well of yourself don’t you pidge? Well, you’re not wrong.” he beckoned the mummy over. After a moment of touching the mirror, the mummy walked over to the bed. “Seems a little silly, but you should get dressed. I mean, it’s the middle of the night.” he guestered at the clothes, then flipped through the dictionary. “ _ Vestimentum _ . Not that you aren’t a treat, but still.”

Still holding the towel around himself, the mummy picked up the edge of the shirt, then looked over at Remy. He dropped the towel to the bed, and picked the shirt up again, examining it. The mummy reached out for Remy. The dark elegant fingers trailed over his cravat, the buttons on his vest, the fastenings on his pants. Remy grabbed his hand. 

“Hold up, buy a fellow a drink first!” 

The mummy’s dark eyes blinked at him confused, then pointed at the clothing Remy had set out. 

“O.K. right, why would you know how to put them on…” 

The mummy shook the shirt. 

“ _ Tunica _ ?” 

“How am I going to handle this?” Part of Remy’s mind suggested getting naked with his unexpected guest, and demonstrating, but he was also pretty sure that would give the wrong impression. Instead he reached for the shirt the mummy was holding. 

Remy adjusted the hold and held it open. 

“Arms through here.” 

It took a little bit of effort, but the mummy was mostly dressed. He’d ended up sitting on the bed and rubbing his eyes like a child, so Remy hadn’t bothered buttoning the shirt all the way. The mummy lay out on top of the bed, sound asleep. Remy would have thought he’d sleep like the dead, but to all of Remy’s senses, it looked like a perfectly normal- if slightly sickly- human sleeping in front of him. 

“I guess coming back from the dead really wears you out.” he snorted, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. “I have to admit I’m jealous.” Remy collapsed in a chair, and stared. “What the hell am I going to do?” 

  
  


Lost in thought, Remy watched the mummy sleep for over an hour. He startled out of it when he heard the rattle of tradesmen’s wagons in the street. All the most interesting people would be asleep now, and the day staff would be showing up shortly to clean up the mess from the party.

Remy started to his feet. He couldn’t leave that box of torn bandages in the parlor. If there’d been a body, he might have convinced the staff to shuffle it to the attic, but without that? Highly suspect. The box had been handled in by the tradesmen that brought it over at Ed’s instruction. More cumbersome than heavy, though it was a sturdy enough crate, with some packing marks on it from when it had been shipped. Remy got it up the steps to the attic, and tucked it beside old trunks like camouflage. Then he went down to the kitchen, poking up the fire. He was in a mood for a hot drink. 

He was rattling around in the tins when he heard the door open behind him.

“What are you on about so early?” came a woman’s arch voice, faintly accented. 

“Ah, Marie, my angel.” Remy said, turning; “I am trying ever so not to disturb your organization but I cannot for the life of me find the coffee beans.” 

It was still dark out, but Marie, the housekeeper and cook arrived before the first light. She’d come with the house; a housekeeper in the know was more valuable than a land grant for vampires these days. Marie was a middle aged woman with toffee colored skin and temper just as hard and brittle. And fortunately for Remy; just as sweet. 

“Well there might be some about if you didn’t drink them down.”

“What am I supposed to do, fetch it from a coffee wagon like a laborer?” he whined. 

“I think even a dead stomach’d turn.” She retorted. 

“I’ve drunk worse.” 

“I’m sure. Did you last night?”

“The party was absolutely smashing.” Remy told her, “No doubt thanks to your excellent provender.” 

“And you?” 

“Did well enough.” 

She rolled her eyes.

“You slept at all?” she asked, peering at him.

“Oh Marie, you know better than that.” Remy laughed. 

“You’re day-strong, but you must sleep sometime.” She scolded. 

“Aw, you’re so sweet.” he patted her hand. She pulled it away, tsking, but starting a pot of coffee. “So uh, I have a houseguest.”

“Too debauched to move, or is he from the continent?” 

“Ah… neither, I guess.” Remy admitted, and rubbed at his eyes briefly with the pads of his fingers, pinching his nose. “But he doesn’t speak English. Or French for that matter.” 

“And he’s not from the continent.” that being code for being a vampire that recently came into the country. 

“No, but something like.” 

“Are the housemaids going to be safe?” she demanded. “You hear all sorts of stories.” 

“Well, safe as they ever are, I think. He seems pretty easy going. From what I can understand.” 

“So what is he?”

Remy looked at the door, knowing the maids would be showing up in not too long.

“He’s not like me or my cuz, and he’s not a werewolf. I guess. Probably closer to a witch or a sorcerer.” 

“Which one?”

“Marie, I don’t even know what language he’s speaking half the time.” 

“But you’re letting him stay.” 

Remy hid his face in his hands.

“It’s right complicated, alright?” 

She patted his shoulder.

“There there, lad, I don’t mean to give you a hard time of it.” Marie said soothingly. “And no rest to mention at that.” 

He smiled at her fondly. 

“But thank you for the warning. He’s in the guestroom is he?”

“Sleeping like a baby when I left.” 

“Well we’ll see if he’s a day man or night man in all time, then.” She looked at the pot. Then at the door to the servants stair. Then back at the pot. She walked up the servants stair at a quick pace. 

Remy laughed. 

Marie could keep a secret with the best of them, but by gun, she wanted to know the secret first. 

Remy investigated the pot and made himself a cup. Footsteps came back down the stair twice as fast. 

“<Remy Coucher,  _ what did you do?> _ ” Marie demanded in French.

“<Coffee?>” He responded, confused.

“<I’m no ignorant thing. I saw what you and your boychildren were up to before I left, and I didn’t say anything, because you wouldn’t have stopped. But I’ve  _ been  _ to the museum. That man has the face of a ancient king.>” 

Remy blinked, and sipped his drink.

“Oh?” he croaked. “<Any one in particular?>” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Remy can't pull anything over on his housekeeper.  
> not that he normally can.  
> Because people don't eat much in this house, she can be the cook and housekeeper in one, and that's pretty unusual. I think there are probably two-to-four housemaids that come in to do the cleaning and the like, and Marie's husband comes in as a man-of-work if they need something. Remy's not so elevated he needs a valet. If he got one he'd probably want a young vampire, just for reasons. Should he have more servants? yeah, probably, but the less he has, the less he has to explain himself to.  
> I don't know if Marie is anything, or if she's just in the know. She is, however, French in origin, just like Remy. She's pretty well educated, frankly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a glimpse into the mummy's thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized this was a good end to that chapter, and it was Halloween, so I figured, go for it update. I've been desperately trying to get to the part where the mummy gets named and speaks better english so I can have fun with the story, but it's kind of like pulling teeth.

In the end, Remy told the truth, for several reasons.

One- it was easier

Two- Marie would have had it out of him eventually

And three- he was just bad at lying. He could deflect, prevaricate, and avoid, but he’d never been terribly good at outright lying, which had got him in trouble more than once. 

His mother had told him that he was too simple to be deceitful. He’d been working on it, but just convincing people not to ask direct questions was a lot more effective. So in the brief time between Marie arriving and the maids showing up, he shared all the information he had.

She stared at him for a long moment, and he could feel the judgement, then she sighed and shook her head. 

“<And yet you decided to help. You may not believe it Remy, but you are a good man.>”

“<Lies and slander in my own home.>” Remy retorted. He got to his feet and swayed a bit, “Ah. I think I shall lie down for a bit. If he wakes up, wake me.” 

“Well I certainly have no Latin.” Marie agreed. “Get with you. I’ll keep the girls out of the bedrooms.” 

Collapsing onto the thick blankets of his bed, Remy groaned as his head spun. So much had happened. He dropped his tinted glasses on the bedside table, and buried his face into a pillow. His head was swimming and his body ached and he desperately craved unconsciousness. Thankfully, he got it, the world fading away, leaving him in nothing but comforting darkness. 

  
  


Waking from a dream where he tried to fly, he sat up from a very soft bed. The room was strange, full of unfamiliar furniture. In fact, nothing was familiar. Even the garments he wore were strange. Outside the window, he could hear people shouting at each other, the rattle of carts, the occasional sound of a horse or a mule. The floor under his feet was made of polished wood. He walked towards the square of light in the wall, the window. His fingers touched- glass. There were sheets of glass in the window. Movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, and he saw a mirror, and his own reflection. 

That at least was familiar, though the mirror was a thing of beauty, polished bright and big enough to see himself completely. Yes. That was him. He traced a hand over his face, and the smooth skin, and smiled, before reaching out and feeling the mirror as well. Again, his fingers touched glass, and he was impressed. 

Fine fabric, enormous mirrors, well worked wood, glass letting light in the windows and keeping the air out. He never would have imagined a world like this in his most fanciful dreams. He frowned though, how had he gotten here? Had he been kidnapped, before he’d woken up? He remembered how sore and hungover he’d felt, dry and achy, in a dimly lit room with a long table. How stiff and dry he’d felt. He felt so empty. 

He still felt like that, dry and aching and empty, missing something he couldn’t articulate. He clutched at the soft fabric that covered his chest, and played with the fastenings for a moment, distracted, before a shout attracted his attention to the window. There was a soft, padded chair, with a high back beside the window, but he ignored that for now. Outside people walked too and fro, most dressed something like he was. Some called to each other, some were focused on things they carried. Some of the words sounded familiar.

Oh yes. The other man, the pale one with red hair, looking like a ghost. The one who appeared and disappeared in puffs of air. He’d told him words, he’d spoken some words. Sometimes he looked at a tablet book in his hands. Oh, there it was, on the table beside the soft bed. He wandered over, passing the door, and pausing to stare at it as the floor creaked outside it, but no one entered. Picking up the tablet book, which was covered in cloth, he returned to the chair by the window, listening to the strange words being spoken outside, and opened it. 

Paper! The tablet books pages were paper, not sheets of wax- with strangely written letters in solid black ink. He dragged his fingers over it, and turned a leaf delicately, finding more of the tightly written letters on the other side, in neat columns. He flipped the paper back and forth, wonderingly. What was wrong with a nice scroll? This didn’t seem like an efficient use of paper, frankly. He peered at the words. That almost looked like a word he knew, written oddly. Perhaps the copyist had an odd hand. He closed the book and realized suddenly that the word ‘LATIN’ was one of the markings on the cover. 

Embarrassed he rubbed his eyes, which felt gritty and dry and opened the book again. Strange as the writing was, one of the columns as in Latin- well more or less. The man- Remy? Yes, he was fairly sure, what an odd name- had spoken another language. If he was referring to this tablet book, then the other words must be words in his language. What a useful thing! He tried to puzzle them out, but he could barely even understand how they’d written the Latin. 

Feeling hollow and dry he leaned back into the chair and stared out the window, at the strange houses that lined the street outside. Very metropolitan wherever he’d ended up. 

How had he ended up here? He rubbed his temple as it ached as he tried to remember, and gave up. 

He watched the people passing by silently, head tipping as he listened to their voices, muffled by the glass and the curtains. His eyes slid shut, trying to ease his headache. 

Faintly he thought he could hear people in the house as well. Probably slaves, tending the house, since it all seemed to be one home. Remy’s home. 

If they’d been lovers, Remy probably would have been in the same bed as he was. Then there was the strangeness of everything, so unlike what he was used to. Something had happened. He was clearly far from his home. But- where was his home? Eyes still shut, he tried to remember. Stone steps and thick wine, ringing voices against painted and plastered walls. Faint and faded faces that he was sure he knew, but could put no names to. He had a father, and mother. He had two older brothers, he thought, and two younger sisters. That sounded right. Had he had a wife? A lover? Pain and darkness and flying, like he had been unable to do in his dream. Staring at his own face from an odd angle. Strips of bandage wound in elegant patterns. 

He opened his eyes, shocked.

He was  _ dead _ . He’d been buried. With full ceremony and rites. Faintly he could remember the sounds of familiar voices mourning him, though he couldn’t quite make out what was being said. 

He was dead. 

Only now… he was awake. Luxurious and fantastic as this might be, Remy was no god, and this was not the afterlife. Something had gone wrong. He leaned forward covering his face with his hands.

“Please.” he sang softly. “Those that are great and merciful. Please. I beg you, gods of the underworld. I am small and harmless. I am alone. Please. Give me some idea of what has happened to me.” He wanted to cry, so much that his eyes hurt from it but nothing happened. He stood up, arms shaking and set the tablet book in front of the mirror, and turned instead to the door. There had been a washroom. He could at least get some water. If the owner of the house barely spoke Latin, he doubted very much any of the slaves would speak enough to bring him wine. Water he could get for himself. There was a pitcher and basin on a side table, and he picked the pitcher up in one hand. 

Slowly he opened the door and looked up and down the hallway. No one was in sight. He had experience, he thought, sneaking through strange houses so the slaves and servants wouldn’t see him, and the bathing room had only been a short way down the hall. It was right where he remembered and he let the stopcock pour clear water into the pitcher, drinking right from the lip once it was full. He drank as much as he could hold, and refilled it, creeping back down the hall to the cracked door that he’d emerged from. Safely in the plush room he set the pitcher back in place in its basin, and looked around the room again. 

Dead and transported to a strange and unfamiliar world. Whoever he was, he was fairly sure he deserved better than this. He knew he had made his life the best it could be. And yet, here he was confused and in the mortal world, not the immortal one. Feeling cold and shaken by his realization, he lay back on the soft bed, wrapping the blankets around himself. Perhaps he would wake and this would have been a dream- or perhaps the gods would have pity on him and grant him a clue in his dreams. 

Remy found himself conscious late afternoon, and sighed explosively. At least he felt less weary. He wanted a drink, coffee, blood or wine, he wasn’t particularly picky. Climbing out of bed, he washed and redressed himself. He wasn’t hungry, per say, he’d fed the night before, but blood every day was comfortable. Not necessary, but nice. A menu of tidbits, not meals. He walked down the hall, pausing for a moment by the guest room door, then headed downstairs. 

In the study for the second time in as many days, Remy started scanning the shelf. Hell, people had been fascinated by Egypt and mummies when he’d been alive, maybe there was a book on it. He flipped through the spines thoughtfully, and someone cleared their throat, and he turned. 

One of the maids smiled nervously, and opened the door further. 

The mummy stood behind her, neck-cloth barely tied and barefoot. 

“Remy!” He said, and nodded at the maid, saying something only he understood and making a definite ‘that will be all’ motion with his hand. She looked back at Remy. 

“It’s fine, bring us something to drink in a bit.” 

She bobbed and headed off, as the mummy came into the room. He took a book out from under his arm, and compared it to the shelves, nodding to himself thoughtfully. He pointed at the book. 

“It’s a book.” Remy said. 

“Book. Ah.” he nodded. He sighed, and said something in latin. “Latin  _ et- _ ” he pointed to Remy

“English.” Remy answered. “Figured that out, did you?” 

The mummy pointed at the books. “English?”

“Well, mostly.” 

“ _ Mihi opus ‘ _ English’  _ legere, deinde. _ ” 

Remy worked that through. “Read? Not speak uh  _ loquere _ ?”

He opened the book and pointed at the page. 

“Damn.” Remy said, surprised. “You’re a clever bit, aren’t you, then? Say, what should I call you anyway?  _ quid est tibi nomen _ ?” 

The mummy looked uncomfortable and pushed his hair back from his face, letting loose a string of words that didn’t even sound like Latin, waving his hand holding the book around. His body language got more and more uncomfortable, the longer he went on. He stopped, heaving a great sigh and shook his head. He rubbed his stomach. 

“Are you hungry? Uh-” Remy reached out and took the book, flipping through it, and the mummy moved close to look over his shoulder as he found the right word. “ _ Famelicus _ ?” he pointed at the word, and the mummy looked over.

“Hun-gah-ree.” he repeated, frowning. Then he shook his head. “ _ vacuus.”  _ he pointed at the book, and Remy found the word, and pointed it out. “Em-tee.” 

“Gettin’ a bit spiritual there, don’tcha think, pidge?” Remy asked, smiling weakly. 

The mummy pointed at himself. 

“Pidge?” he asked.

“I have no idea how to explain that. But yes, I’m calling you pidge.” he pointed back at him. “Pidge.” 

The mummy shrugged in what Remy translated as a philosophical fashion. Remy pointed at a chair, and the mummy sat down in it. 

“I think I saw something that might be useful, just hold on.” After a bit of searching, Remy found what he thought he’d seen, over where he’d found the English-to-Latin dictionary; a schoolbook for learning Latin. “Stands to reason if you can learn Latin with it, you should learn it back, right?” 

“Right?” parroted back the mummy. He looked over the book, and made a thoughtful noise. Reaching into the desk, Remy pulled out some paper and a pencil. 

“Let’s work on this, because I think you’ll be a lot more fun when we can understand each other.” 

By the time Remy had to light the lamps, they were both exhausted and frustrated, but the mummy had picked up enough of how it worked to use the dictionary to find words. Remy was frankly impressed. He hadn’t learned English that quickly, but then he’d been taught by ear. They’d gone through a couple of pots of tea and a bottle of wine. 

“I can’t help but think that we’re missing something, pidge.” Remy said honestly. 

“Missing. Missing yes!” the mummy said suddenly, and touched his chest again. Taking the pencil, he flipped over a piece of paper and started drawing something. Remy leaned forward, and after a few minutes, the mummy pushed the paper towards him.

There was drawing of four jars, each with a differently shaped stopper. The mummy tapped at the drawing. 

“Me.” he said. “I need. Missing.” 

“Huh.” Remy said thoughtfully. “...I know dash all about Egypt, pidge, but that does have the look, doesn’t it? These are important to you?”

They took a few minutes to sort out what he’d actually said, and the mummy nodded. 

“Me.” he repeated. He leaned back in his chair and pressed his hands over his eyes, as if he was weary, or upset. 

Taking a break from his unusual teaching role, Remy leafed through his mail, both morning and afternoon post having been brought in with the tea. 

“Oh shit!” He said, standing up. “Pidge, I’ve got to go,”

“Go?” Repeated the mummy. 

“I’ve got a dinner engagement, just about forgot-” Remy admitted, heading out of the room. The mummy trailed after him, down the stairs and up the hall, where Remy discarded his cravat for a different one and changed his waistcoat. Fixing his hair in a mirror, he was kind of surprised that the mummy was watching; he’d thought that’ he’d flashed upstairs; only a minor risk this time of day. “You’re quick on your feet.” 

“Dinner?” the mummy asked. Remy winced. 

“I’ll get Marie to get you something; I can’t take you out until you speak a bit more English.” 

“Buggery.” he sounded disgusted. 

Remy choked. “Where did you learn that one?” 

The mummy just gestured at him. Remy laughed.

“Well, it’s not on the menu for tonight as far as I know.” He tweaked a wave of hair, and pulled out his watch. “If I hurry I can swing by a shop and see if I can get some teaching books, might make things easier on you. But you have to stay here for now.” 

Resigned, his unexpected guest sighed. 

“Thank you.” That was very clear. Remy smiled again, a little less flash and a little more genuinely. 

“You’re welcome, pidge. I must say you’re a right bit o’ fun. Wouldn’t have thought it, but you’re exciting.” From his frown, Remy must have lost him at some point in that sentence. “Be good, I’ll bring you a present.” He tickled the mummy under the chin like he would have with his flirty boys and the mummy blinked, jerking back a minuscule amount, before relaxing slightly, and responding with a flirty smirk, and a lowering of unfairly thick eyelashes over dark eyes, looking up at him. Remy pursed his lips, a touch of heat coming to his cheeks. He may have made a mistake. He’d better get his hands on a history book or two, right quick. 

His stop at the bookseller did make him late. Ed tutted at him as he came in- they hadn’t gone in for dinner yet, but he had missed the entertainment beforehand. Some kind of poetry reading, Remy thought, so not much of a loss. 

“Sleepless night?” Ed teased. “Reconsidering that mummy’s curse?”

“Oh not hardly.” Remy snorted. “I’ve had less pleasant house guests; he’s a quiet one at least.” 

“Well allow me to introduce you to your dinner companion- this is my younger sister Patrica.” Ed said, introducing Remy to a young woman, who indeed shared a distressing number of features with him. Her smile was sweet, though with a small gap between her teeth. 

“My pleasure.” Remy lied convincingly. 

“Edward tells me you’re from France!” Patrica said in that light fluting tone that young girls cultivated. “It sounds terribly romantic there; if I’m not engaged by the end of the season, I hope to go on a tour!” She smiled up at him through her eyelashes, and Remy personally thought the mummy had done it better. 

“Oh, how’s your French?” he asked. 

“I read it better than I speak it, my tutor spoke so quickly!” 

“<I’m going to get your brother for this.>” Remy said sweetly. 

“Oh yes, just like that; but your accent is so much prettier!” 

“They probably have a Parisian accent.” Remy told her. “My family spent their time at a house in the country.” Their only house, but that hardly mattered now. It had been a nice house, the last time he saw it. They weren’t tenant farmers, they were landowners. It wouldn't surprise him if one of his sisters- or he supposed, possibly their children by now, still lived there. 

“You said… something about my brother?” 

“Just what a good friend he is.” Fortunately, dinner was called, and Remy could escort her in, and dinner conversation was a great deal more restrained. Dinner wasn’t exactly his favorite social engagement, but at least if he was charming enough he didn’t have to eat a great deal; and it really kept doors open for other social interaction. Which was important for his lifestyle. It was much easier when he didn’t have to go looking for a meal. 

“Why were you running late? You love charming my mother.” His mother and sister and the other female dinner guests had retreated elsewhere- perhaps to write more poetry, Remy didn’t know. Ed’s father and his dinner guests- as well as Ed and Remy were socialising over billards and brandy. 

“Your mother never looked at me like that before.” Remy shuddered theatrically into his brandy “I feel positively  _ endangered _ , Ed.”

Ed gave a laugh. Remy waved his other hand airily. 

“A bit of business came up I couldn’t get out of, and I lost track of time dealing with it.”

“Boo-” Ed retorted. “Work! Frightfully dull!”

“Well, my pater is a little further afield and can’t throw me easy tasks to gnaw on. How else am I going to keep myself in a manner in which I’m accustomed without a little effort now and again?”

“Well  _ you  _ could go hunting.” Ed suggested. “I mean, not my sister, per say, but find yourself a nice girl with endowments.” 

“I’d be more likely to find an older dame who just wanted a pretty piece to inherit, thanks.” Remy rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. “So, look- strange question, but where did you get that mummy?” 

“Oh my uncle was in the wars on the continent. He picked it up while he was in Egypt, and when he died, all his stuff was sent home. Mum didn’t want it in the house, said it gave her and Patrica the willies. So I offered to get rid of it. And the rest of the mouldy junk.” 

“What sort of mouldy junk?”

“More Egyptian gegaws, mostly. Some stuff from other places that he collected. Indian dust traps, that sort of thing Nothing really good that I could pawn for some ready. Gave Caroline one of the necklaces though. Almost as good as properly made jewelry.” 

“I think I took a fancy to the stuff. Is any of it left around?”

“You aren’t possessed by a dead chap are you?” 

Remy laughed airily. “Naw, but I’m in possession of one, so close enough eh?” 

“Givin’ me the morbs, Remy.” 

“It’s all good my man.” he cajoled. 

“Eh, fair is all,” he shrugged. “Take me on the town for a night or two and you can have the last box. Isn’t like I want it much.” 

Remy curled close and tickled Ed under his chin. 

“I will show you  _ such  _ a time.” 

Ed’s eyes darkened. “Oh I count on it.” 

Now that was a great deal more promising. Frankly, unexpected guest and all- which Remy had to admit he sort of deserved for encouraging the activity in the first place, and if a pretty boy who couldn’t speak the language was the worst of the mummy’s curse, he’d take it- Remy’s week was going great. 

They made an arrangement to go out later that week, but Remy could stop by Ed’s digs any afternoon to pick it up. 

“Truth be told I kind of agreed with Mater and Patrica.” he admitted. “I still can’t believe you did that.” 

Remy thought about the now much softer skin the mummy was sporting and shrugged philosophically. 

“It’s not like he smelled bad. I’ve kissed whores with worse breath.” 

Ed laughed. 

“Hush up, you oiled gnat, my family still thinks you’re my respectable friend.”

“I never!” 

They both laughed.

Normally, Remy would have gone out seeking more fun after a dinner party; it wasn’t even midnight. But given his guest, he thought it would be better if he stuck close to home for now. To his surprise the staff hadn’t headed home yet, Marie and Albert, the man who kept his clothes in order still there. Technically a housekeeper and a butler weren’t really on the same social strata of servants, but anyone working in this house knew that things were often a little strange. Albert simply wanted to know if he was to expect luggage for Remy’s foreign guest, or if he should see about finding him a wardrobe; but he wanted to ask before he did, and felt that a note would be inefficient. 

“Yes, do that, but see if you can without letting anyone else know he’s here just yet.”

“The tailoring will be subpar.” Albert sniffed, as if that was a greater crime than not speaking English. 

“It’s not like I’m taking him out on the town, Bert.” Remy rolled his eyes. “We’ll get him kitted up classy later. It’s bound to be better than what he’s wearing now.” 

“Very well. I will be in later tomorrow then.”

“I’m sure everything’s in order, if you can’t come in until the day after, that’s fine. I won’t be going out for a few days, I can manage myself.” 

“As you say sir.” Albert looked pained, and Remy held in a laugh. 

“I can bring in my eldest girl.” Marie offered. “She’s been doing piece work for a tailor. She’ll be able to make adjustments.”

“A compromise then.” Albert took his leave. 

“And what do you have for me?” Remy asked Marie.

“Ah, M’husband’s brother is visiting. I trust him around his blood kin, but he’s never careful enough around others in my opinion.”

“A dangerous sort.”

“Aren’t all you?” Marie’s brother-in-law was a vampire, and fairly well behaved for his youth. Both he and her husband had been thralls to a vampire when they were younger, but when he’d been changed he’d taken his brother and run. That was part of the reason Marie was so calm about vampires. “It’s not much of a hardship. Your boy ate a little something, but didn’t really seem interested. Drank another bottle of wine though, and more tea. He only went up to the guest room a bit ago. It looked like he was set to study until you came back. He tried a few sentences on me.” She made a face. “If you can get through to him that we’re servants, not slaves, I think that might be good.” 

“I got a school book for him, and a history book for me.” Remy promised. “We’ll sort this out. He seems to think he’s missing something; and I may have a lock on that. Who knows, maybe that will sort everything out on it’s own.” 

She snorted. 

“Well it would be nice, wouldn’t it?” he demanded, adjusting his glasses. “Let me know when you want to go home, I’ll walk you there.”

“Oh?” she asked, as he stood taking his book with him. 

“Wouldn’t want such a stand up woman as yourself assaulted. There are bad men out there.” He retorted. “I should know.” it would have been a better exit line if she hadn’t laughed at him. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remy and the mummy make an effort to understand eachother.

Remy had largely stayed home for a few days, working on the mummy’s English, but the mummy had failed to remember his name. He seemed to be understanding English better than he spoke it, sometimes putting words in the wrong order, or saying something in a language that wasn’t even Latin. Despite asking around, there didn’t seem to be an English to Egyptian dictionary available, and while there was a book hieroglyphic translation, it was dull as fuck, and confused both of them. Which was a pity, because the mummy had looked very hopeful when he’d first opened it up. 

Still disappointments and all, this was the most interesting thing that had happened to Remy in years, and he was enjoying it. 

Which was not to say he wasn’t glad to escape for the afternoon and evening. The mummy’s English was improving, and he even had a few phrases in French- enough to clear up the difference between servants and slaves, for which he apologized to Marie, haltingly. She and her daughter could handle him, for the evening, making sure he was kitted out appropriately. Albert had apparently taken decent measurements, even acquiring shoes. It probably helped that the mummy was, despite having a mature face and body, more the height of a teenager who might outgrow their clothes suddenly. He seemed to enjoy the fashion pages that Marie’s daughter had brought with her. Remy was pretty sure the boy’d look tops in a frock, so he let Marie explain gender divide in fashion since he’d be no help. 

He looked good in frocks when the mood struck him, though he wished he’d had the balls to do it when he was alive as more than a joke. 

It had been a jolly time, the mummy able to recognize his own failures and willing to laugh a bit at them. But Remy was more than ready for a visit outside the house. 

Ed’s flat was dull, frankly. He’d pushed really hard on the everything upholstered in brown leather, and hadn’t much taste in art, either. At least he didn’t have blatant erotic art on his walls, instead having chosen a rather banal neo classical piece of a trio of women arguing with veils in the woods. Remy supposed they were round, soft looking bottoms, but not really to his taste. He wasn’t friends with Ed for his taste, however. 

Well. 

Not his taste in decor. Or fashion. Or, since he’d been the one to come up with unwrapping the mummy, which could have gone a lot worse, entertainment. But he was a good friend, and good company, which was all Remy generally asked for. If a police officer had asked where Remy was the night before, Ed would say that he was with him without hesitation. Always a good kind of friend to have. 

His taste in  _ wine  _ however was excellent however. His father owned an import business, (among other business; Remy suspected he owned the building Ed had his flat in) and wine was one of the many things they imported, and those were the books Ed pretended he was keeping. 

Remy suspected he did not pay full price for his wines. Which he’d never complain about, as long as he reaped the benefits. And despite the fact Ed was doing him a favor, he never let other people bring the wine to his flat, and was always liberal with it, never mind tea or coffee would be more appropriate for an afternoon visit. There was also a tea service, but both of them drank wine instead. 

After a few rounds of pointless conversation, Ed waved his hand at a packing crate that rested by the door. 

“Pulled it out of storage for you.” he said. “Pretty sure my mater pulled out anything personal of her brothers, but she might have had sodding vapors, so if you find anything that wasn’t his bizarre taste in knicknacks-”

“I’d return it to you afore I made fun of it in public, you know you can trust me with secrets, Ed.”

Ed nodded, satisfied.

“Why didn’t you have a look first?” Remy asked. 

“Honestly, he was my Godfather in theory, but if I ever met the man, it was before I was long pants.” Ed flipped his hand dismissively, abandoning good posture to lean back against the soft leather of his armchair. “He went off to the continent and got his head all wrapped up in this mystical eastern shit.” He snorted. “Wrapped up, like a mummy.” It wasn’t a great joke, but Remy flashed a smile anyway. Part of Remy wanted to poke at the crate, see what was in it, but he’d have plenty of time for that after he got it home. If Ed was going to be so amiable, it was only fair he returned the favor. 

“What’s that?” Remy asked, pointing at a low box by Ed’s feet. It was brightly painted with Egyptian figures, with elegantly carved handles and feet of some dark wood. There was a rather ugly needlework cushion on top of it, that clearly didn’t match. 

“My foot stool? Oh! Right, that’s another thing from my uncle’s stuff.” Ed moved the cushion. “I think it’s a box, but I can’t figure out how to get it open. Rattles a bit if you shove it too hard. But it’s a great height for resting my feet on, and the same size as this hideous thing.” He snorted at the cushion. “My little sister made it for me.” The needlework featured a series of birds perching on a lattice and none of it was well executed or in life like colors. He smirked. “Tell you what, you can have that too, but you have to take the cushion too.” 

“Are you certain you’re not aiming at having me for an inlaw?” Remy poked.

“Remy, you have not seen some of the broken colts that have been dancing with her.” He shook his head. “She’s kind of a wet tea towel with no sense of color, but she deserves better than that.”

“Maybe so, but leave me out of it.” Remy batted at Ed with the cushion. “It’s a bargain though.” He’d just leave the cushion in the drawing room, where he’d never have to see it. Ed moved the box- honestly quite a pretty thing in it’s own foreign way- over by the crate and Remy expertly tossed the cushion to land on top. Ed cheered his pathetic athleticism, and Remy gave a sarcastic toast of his glass. Sports were far too sunny and sweaty for Remy’s taste, so despite the ribbing he never joined the boys in their occasional games, though he would sometimes deign to show up and cheer for them when they faced off against their rivals- a similar group of boys who’d attended a different school, but frequented the same haunts. Their rivalry, frankly, came off as another game more than anything else. 

When Ed rejoined him, he sprawled out onto the couch beside Remy instead of in his chair. Remy hooked his glass over and refilled it before passing it back to him. Ed sighed, and tipped his head back as he drank. 

“I gave my man the afternoon and evening off,” he admitted. “So we’ll have to find our own porter to get your haul back.” 

Remy flapped a dismissive hand, unworried. If he could hail a decent sized cab, instead of a hansom, he could load the boxes in himself and pretend they weren’t that heavy. He tucked himself against the arm of the couch, and turned to look at Ed, who looked as though he was bracing himself to talk about a subject. He didn’t look at Remy, instead staring into his glass. 

“Patrica’s not the only one my mater wants to get settled up.”

“I thought you liked Caroline well enough?” 

Edward shrugged and drained his glass, filling it and topping up Remy’s.

“She’s pretty enough, and witty and dances well. Don’t mind it, I guess. But-” he sighed. “Remy, how do you do what makes you happy? All the time. How do you find it?”

“I didn’t let my mother pick it out.” Remy snarked, lips pulling back into a smirk. 

“Well, she’d be French, wouldn’t she?”

“Last I checked.” he gave a chuckle. “But that aside, I just look around and see what pleases me and do my best to grab a hold with both hands.” he gestured with his free hand, and Ed focused on it for a moment, before he glanced back at Remy with an odd sort of intensity. 

“How do you know what pleases you?”

“Sometimes it’s a bit of trial and error.” he admitted. “Trying things on for size and seeing what happens.”

“Hrm.” Ed said thoughtfully, glancing down, and then up again. He took a deep breath, and licked his lips. “I think I’d like to try what made Ernest so pleased.”

“Would you now?” Remy’s eyebrows rose. “Has Ernest been telling tales?” 

“Barely a whisper.” Ed admitted, but leaned toward Remy. “But I have seen a few things.” he rested a hand on Remy’s thigh. “And I can trust you.”

“Trust is important.” Remy admitted, and set his glass down, curling his fingers through Ed’s hair, down his cheek, and under the curve of his chin, thumb stroking in a caress that Ed didn’t pull away from. “But this isn’t calling in the favor I owe you.”

“It’s not?”

Remy grinned, sharp and wicked, before licking his own lips. 

“This is my pleasure.” 

It was well past the dinner hour when Remy got back. A tip to the carriage driver had him carrying the smaller box up the stairs and leaving it in the front hall. As pretty as it was, Remy didn't want someone making off with it while he carried the crate up, or damaging it accidentally by trying to carry both at once. The mummy gracefully descended the stairs from the second floor with a smile on his face as Remy entered. Remy gave him a wave, and shut and locked the door behind the coachman. 

“Let’s get this lot in the study before we go through it, shall we pidge?” Remy said, and picked up the crate again. 

“Yes, yes!” Agreed the mummy. “ _ Oui, certainement!” _ He stroked the top of Ed’s ‘footstool’ and followed Remy into the study. Remy dropped the crate beside the desk, as the mummy gently set the painted box on it. 

“Yes good!” the mummy said brightly. “This! I am here.”

“In a sealed box?”

“I was in a  _ different  _ sealed box, and was unsealed.” The mummy reminded him impishly. He traced his hands over it and pressed, sliding a piece of wood to one side. He turned the box and did it again, in a different direction. He did it once for every side, then the top popped off. Inside, cradled in niches were the four jars that he’d drawn for Remy, each one slightly smaller than a bottle of wine, and squatter. He ran a hand over their lids, and sighed happily. He stroked a hand over his chest with a similar reverent hand, eyes closed. 

“How did you know how to do that?” Remy asked, baffled at his seemingly effortless solving of the puzzle chest. 

The mummy’s eyes blinked open. 

“... I do not know.” He touched his fingertips to the carved stoppers. “Never have I seen it before. Or these jars. But they are me.” 

“...oie, pidge, you been holding out on me?” Remy asked, taking a seat. “Only you’re talking English much clearer now.” 

The mummy gave a startled laugh.

“Yes!” he agreed. “I feel I have heard it before. In dreams. Now it starts to come together and make sense to me.”

“I guess those really were important. What are they? I mean, parts of you?” 

“They would be-” he looked at the jars again. “Lungs, liver, stomach and guts.” He touched one after the other, and Remy jerked back a bit.

“So-” he said a little shakily. “When you say they’re part of you-” 

“Yes. Quite.” he nodded. Frankly, the way he was forming his words sounded more like he’d been to a British finishing school than Remy’s own faint francophone.

“Where’s your heart then?” 

He spread his hand over the center of his chest. 

“Here in my chest.” 

“Good to know your hearts in the right place then.” Remy paused, and patted his chest uncertainly. He tried to keep track of his heart, at least, in case he had to dodge an attack. After a moment he felt the sluggish vampiric beat that let him know it was there. As he did that, the mummy picked up each jar, stroking his hands over them, before putting them back in place, and resting the lid on top without locking it back in place. He moved over to the crate, and tried to pry the lid off. Remy laughed as he frowned. 

“It’s nailed in place, pidge, let me.'' Without bothering to get a prybar, Remy tried what the mummy had just done, only he was met with success, the nails prying up and the top of the crate coming loose. The inside was filled with books and smaller boxes, and a few things wrapped in burlap to keep them safe. The mummy picked up the books, peering at them, before handing them over to Remy, one at a time. Remy noted that while some of them were the same kind of dry academic tomes they’d rented from the bookseller about the treasures of Egypt and Greece, there was a stack of leather bound journals, all written in the same hand. Clearly neither Ed nor his mother had taken a good look; assuming that they were all household ledgers like the top one in the stack. 

The boxes were full of specimens, including another mummy hardly the length of Remy’s arm, which sported a sculpted head resembling a cat, a dried human hand on a bed of cotton, a few fragments of frescoes, a well-used watercolor paint set, and a few jars with animals preserved in alcohol. The wrapped items were mostly various small figures of what Remy assumed were gods. The mummy peered at each one, and some he set down more reverently than others. At the bottom of the box was a brass microscope and box of slides, as well as a set of scalpels. They spread their finds over the desk top, setting the box with the jars aside for now. 

Remy thumbed through the journals putting them in order, while the mummy turned pages of a thick portfolio full of watercolor sketches, with a faint smile, clearly admiring the artistry. 

“He did seem to love the country.” the mummy commented. “No one would paint such a simple scene if they did not.” turning the page, he frowned at a sketch of a tomb door, the figures reproduced fairly well. 

“Sparking any more epiphanys?” Remy asked. Downcast, the mummy shook his head. 

“Vague memories only. A street vendor of sausage. I remember-” a crease formed between his eyebrows. “A mosaic. It was beautiful, and I could look at it for hours, especially when the rain hit it.” he gave a weak laugh, and shook his head, combing his curls back from his face. “I can remember a song I sang to my mother, but not her name or face.” he sighed. “In fact I think I can remember the dreams of a man’s voice speaking English more clearly.” 

“I don’t think there's anything wrong with your brain, persay.” Remy said thoughtfully. “Even allowing for this strange jump in competency, you were learning English dead fast.”

“Heh.” the mummy muttered, looking over the items that wouldn’t have looked like much, but were clearly someone’s treasures. He ran his finger over the brass wheel of the microscope, watching the lens move up and down. Despite his brief smile, he looked miserable. Clearly he had been hoping for some sort of clue to his identity. Remy supposed there might be something in one of the journals, but that seemed like a lot of work. There were like…  _ years  _ of commonplace books there. That’d be a project for another day. Or several. But it was already getting cumbersome for the poor boy to not even have a name. Remy’d gotten the impression that they did. Even the poorest mourner nowadays wanted a marker with their name on it, and he couldn’t imagine all this fancy necrofrippintry would neglect something that simple. Leaning on his arm, he watched the mummy pick up the first of the books and squint at it. 

“Curls and twirls.” he mumbled. 

Remy chuckled, and his eyes drifted shut. He hadn’t been tired enough to do more than rest the night before, and while a bit of a frisk between the sheets or just another man’s thighs was refreshing it wasn’t the same. For a moment, his eyes just wanted to stay shut and he wondered if he was going to doze off right there. Then he jerked awake, coughing slightly. The mummy stared at him with mild concern.

“Got a beauty of a thinker.” Remy said. “Let’s check the box!” 

“The box?” he glanced at the now empty crate. 

“The box you arrived feet first in, pidge!” Remy grinned, and adjusted his smoked glasses. “Rather focused on the main event as young men are, so we mighta missed something that might tell something.” He grabbed a lamp. “I put it up in the attic, no one goes up there this time of year.” Remy paused. “Well hardly ever full stop, but folk like me tend to not let go of things, so it’s a might of a mess.” 

The mummy smiled, kind of sad and set the book down. 

“Very well, let us give it a chance.” 

The attic was exactly as Remy had left it almost a week ago. Dim and dusty, with trunks and boxes tucked under the eves and only the vaguest nod to organization. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how it had managed to get cluttered so fast. The house was pretty new, a hundred or so years, and Johan had moved in after renovating it less than fifty years ago, and Remy hadn’t brought much with him when he’d taken it over, so only one of the trunks was his, and it was mostly empty. He did pull the crate out to the middle of the room instead, setting the lamp on top of a nearby trunk, and then flashing back down for a second one. One lamp would be plenty of light for him, but the mummy’s sight wasn’t so good. 

“Here we go pidge.” Remy said, lighting it. 

“Thank you.” 

The mummy gingerly moved the bandages that had ended up back in the crate, like he didn’t want to touch them. Some he held up to the light, peering at markings on them, only to shake his head. There was some excelsior of wood shavings padding the bottom of the box, which he combed his fingers through, searching for anything. 

Suddenly his face lit up and he dug into it, coming up with a panel of wood. 

“What is it?” Remy asked, bringing the lamp closer. 

“I think it is my portrait! My name may be on the bottom. I… it was just painted a year or two ago-” he turned the panel over to face them, and the lamplight shone over a beautifully painted portrait of a young man with dusky skin, curved lips, and black-brown curls framing his face. It was lovingly rendered, with no small skill. The skin almost seemed to glow in the painting, though the edges were rough as if cloth had been glued on and ripped off. 

However, the eyes had been viciously scraped out by a sharp object at some point. 

“Oh.” the mummy touched the portrait. He said something in something that wasn’t Latin, running his fingertips over the deep scratches that obscured the eyes. “What did I do?” he asked, politely in English. “Remy, what could I have done to deserve this?” Despite the care he was taking, there was a dampness to his voice, and a faint wobble of emotion. 

“It’s just vandalism.” Remy said, kind of disappointed. The rest of the face was a match to the mummy’s. Even with the eyes gone it showed his good looks to an advantage, he would have liked to see it complete.. 

“No. It is linked to me. My eyes in the afterlife.” He stroked his fingers against his lower eyelid gently. “How can I find my way like this?” His brown eyes turned back to Remy, full of tears. “I do not even know my  _ name _ .” 

“Here now, don’t cry.” it was too late, and he was snuffling into the cuff of his shirt, wiping tears away. “We worked so hard to get that water in you;” Remy pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it into the mummy’s hand. “You can get a new name. Happens all the time with people like me. Just pick one. Any name you like.” 

The mummy gave a wet laugh. 

“Oh is that all? How simple.” 

“I mean, how about…” He cast about and pointed at a label on the crate. The shipping inventory listed ‘roman-era mummy’ “That’s a name. Roman. Good strong name.”

The mummy gave an offended sounding huff, dabbing obediently at moist eyes, and swallowing down his misery. 

“Romans. Of course. Well, they did run a nice city.” He shifted a bit in place. “I think… I think my father was a Roman.” He scrunched his eyes shut. “I cannot recall  _ his  _ name either. Or that of my brothers or sisters. There’s a great blank where my life should be. Like a ruined fresco.” 

“I’m sorry pidge.” Remy said and put an arm around his shoulder. The mummy leaned into it, resting his head on Remy’s shoulder.

“Do you think I should forget?” his voice was damp again, and he pressed the handkerchief to his eyes one after the other. 

“Seems pretty important to you.” Remy said after a long moment.

“Without knowing my life, how can I be prepared for the afterlife?” he retorted, and said something in that language that wasn’t Latin. 

“Sorry pidge, didn’t catch that.”

“A moment-” his eyes squeezed shut. “Is  _ this  _ my afterlife now? A strange world unlike everything I’ve known. Is this all I deserve?” 

“I don’t know about deserving.” Remy said thoughtfully, staring at the ruined portrait that was propped up in front of them. They were sitting on the floor, backs against a chest, the mummy half wrapped around him, the hand holding the handkerchief clutching at his lapel. “But sometimes death throws you off. It’s something you don’t expect. All you can do is deal with what you’re dealt.” He gave the mummy another squeeze. “It’s not all bad, is it?” 

“I have not seen much.” he admitted. “... the bread is soft. The wine is sweet.” 

“There we go. A good start. There’s so much more, pidge. Pretty boys, pretty girls, if you’d rather, fine clothes, music, song, dance.” 

The mummy gave a wet chuckle. 

“That sounds familiar and good.”

“Life’s what you make it, pidge. The afterlife too.” 

The mummy sniffed a few times. 

“Roman.” he said, thoughtfully. “Do I look like a Roman?” 

Remy leaned back a bit to study his face. 

“A bit. I mean, I didn’t spend long in Italy, but they were dusky skinned pretty boys with lovely eyes there.”

The mummy snorted, shaking his head. 

“Then I suppose it will do.”

“And if you don’t like it, you can change it later!” Remy reminded him cheerfully. “Read some romantic nonsense novel and pick a name from there.” not much of a reader, Remy tried to think of a name from one "Heathcliff, or Quincy or Dorian or something." 

Wrinkling his nose in an almost adorable fashion, the mummy shook his head. 

“Of those options, Roman is preferable. if all I can remember is that my father was originally from Rome, then I can be named after my father."

"Very traditional." Remy nodded encouragingly. 

“It is a connection of sorts.” he exhaled slowly, and let his head rest on Remy’s shoulder again. Remy squeezed his arm around him. The floor was dusty, but they could stay like this for a little bit longer. 

They brought the portrait down to the study. The newly-dubbed Roman had hopes that daylight might reveal some sort of markings that might give a clue to his old name. Somehow the scratches that marred it looked even more depressing in the fairly tidy environment of the study. It looked more like a naturalist's cave with samples spread out all over it, but despite the use it had seen as a place of study in the last week, it was still one of the more unused rooms of the house. Remy poked through the small artifacts, and lined three statues up amused. A many armed woman standing on a lion, a claw footed, winged woman with a lion at her feet, and a and a lion faced woman in a crown.

"Blasphemy or no, God sure looks pretty boring next to these ladies." He tapped the last "Though this could be an angel, I suppose. They come in many forms, and she's got a halo."

“An angel is?” 

“A messenger from God.” 

“I suppose you could say that.” Roman frowned at the statue. “Which one?”

“Which one?” Remy was momentarily confused. 

“She was not one I knew well, but she was a goddess. But while Gods and Goddesses are eternal people are not. We have seen them wax and wane. Each generation values different things, and different gods.” He smiled. “I liked the legends and the stories of them. That one is-” He said a word that Remy didn’t know, and started telling a story with waves of his hands and expressive eyes. Sadly, he was seemingly unaware that he would dip into a different language for sentences at a time. Remy listened anyway, because his voice was rich and kind of soothing, even if he didn’t get the whole story. Something about a goddess running wild, and beer and blood. He’d have to ask again later because it sounded like a good time. When Roman finished, and flushed a bit.

“I hope I have not bored you;”

“I can honest thomas say I’ve never heard that story before- it was fun. But what say we go rustle up something to drink?” 

Roman caressed the tops of the canopic jars and nodded. 

Marie and the rest of the staff had headed home after dinner had finished, though there was some sort of pottage slow cooking the back of the stove. Remy made a pot of tea, Roman watching carefully. 

“I mean to ask.” he said, with a faint frown. “You do not sleep, or eat much, and you move very quickly. Marie says that is what you are?” 

“Yep.” reaching under the smoked lens of his glasses, he rubbed gently at the edge of his eye. So this was a conversation they were having now. Fine. O.K. 

“What is that?” he prodded.

“I’m a vampire.” Remy said bluntly. 

“Vam-pi-er.” Roman repeated thoughtfully. “What does it mean?” 

“Oh they must have had them when you were alive, we aren’t a new invention.” Remy smiled a little more broadly, and flexed, showing the sharper points to his teeth. 

Roman blinked, leaning forward to get a better look. 

“Eater of flesh?” 

“No, not a ghoul, pidge, just blood. I drink the blood of living things. It’s what I need to live.” he shrugged philosophically “Well, ‘live’ for a certain definition of the thing. I was human, then I died, and now I’m what humans who know a thing call ‘undead’.” 

“Not dead, not alive.” Roman thought about this. “We are alike then.”

“Not unless you’ve been having a nosh on some black sausage when I’m not looking.” 

“Well the sausage I had the other night was rather odd.” he teased. 

“Could give you a better one.” He leered wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Could you now?” he laughed. “As much as I like a good sausage, I do not know if I am quite up to that. I’ve never been much of a traveler but they say you should avoid strange sausage in a new place.” 

Remy leaned back in his chair and laughed. 

“Oh Roman, I cannot  _ wait  _ until you’re just a little more adjusted, and you can come with me on an outing! We’re going to have such fun together!” 

“I am looking forward to it as well.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made a tumblr for the series. Ask questions! Ask questions directly to the characters! I hope to get more drawings up!
> 
> [ Monstrous Roommates Tumblr ](https://monstrousroommates.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

Now with a Christian name and sudden eloquence, Roman soon charmed the townhouse’s small staff- though Marie and her daughter were halfway there already, and Albert liked anyone who took good care of their clothing. Roman was just as eager to learn about fashion as he was anything else, and had acquired a proper appetite in Marie’s opinion. 

While having gained a roommate, Remy went about his life in his normal frivolous fashion. He collected both the ten pounds and a bit more than a rubbing of noses from Reginald, the arse who’d made the stupid bet. Given how Roman spoke about dreaming of hearing conversations Remy doubted his kiss had had any bearing on the mummy’s full awakening, something that he had admittedly worried about. He also didn’t seem to be suffering from any ill luck, so if a mummy’s curse was a thing, then he’d dodged it. He still went out of his way to acquire a new cravat pin that incorporated four different good luck charms, just in case. It wasn’t even that unattractive- a silver fig, set with a pink ruby shaped like a heart, and a four-leafed clover in jade, which made up the handle of a sword which was the pin part. He was hardly the only one who’d attended the party that had adopted a few. Reginald had both a dried clover in the back of his watch case and a rabbit’s foot on the other end of his watch chain. Ernest had a horseshoe set with garnets, and a little clutch of charms in his watch pocket. Only Ed seemed to feel like he’d distanced himself, which was especially silly in Remy’s opinion because he was pretty much the cause. But their luck was fine, be it from the good luck charms or just because there was nothing to worry about. 

It was nearly a month after the unwrapping party that Remy came home from a gadabout town, sated and slightly drunk. He could always count on at least two outings and a few friendly meetups a week to keep him fed and amused. And while Roman didn’t do anything for the feeding, he certainly was wonderful company. 

The artifacts had mainly been packed up, but the crate lingered in the mostly unused study. Roman found the study more comfortable than the writing desk in his room, and Remy would often find him there, increasing his skill in reading English, and devouring information. Remy brought a pot of tea with him, hoping to get some late night conversation before he tried to pass out for a bit. Roman looked up and smiled brilliantly as Remy entered, waving him to a seat and immediately bitching the pot like an old hand. He even knew how Remy preferred his tea, so Remy didn’t have to own up to the ridiculous amounts of cream and sugar he loved, and that lemons didn’t even enter the kitchen. 

Tonight it seemed Roman was going through the crate again, and specifically, the journals. The stack of journals had been sorted into two piles, personal and household and the desk was scattered with papers, covered with both pencil and ink. 

Remy picked up one of the discarded sheets and found a beautiful copy of script handwriting, followed with a print letter translation. In the margins there were a few Latin letters and Egyptian drawing characters. 

“What’s this then?” 

Roman sighed and gave a smile. 

“Trying to make sense of the curly-twirlys.” He tapped the page of the journal in front of him. “Does everyone write like this?”

“Some people are more fancy. Frankly, this is pretty legible for a personal book.” 

“Well bugger  _ that _ .” Roman said huffing a sigh and sipping at his tea. “It is pretty, 

though. Like a decorative border only it is the entire text.” 

Remy meanwhile was comparing Roman’s copy to the original words in the journals. If nothing else, Roman looked to have a promising career as a forger ahead of him. These days it took a bit more than just showing up some place to start a life, and knowing someone who could falsify documents was always useful. A thought crossed his mind, and he burst out laughing. 

“I’ve got a crazy idea, Pidge.”

“What sort of idea?” Roman cocked his head. 

“So, I can change people’s memories and thoughts.” Remy suggested. “And you sound quite the chap. What if you were Ed’s cousin?”

“I doubt anyone would believe that for long.” he tweaked his own nose. 

“No, hear me out- His uncle died, right?”

“Algernon.” Roman supplied. 

“What?”

“His uncle's name was Algernon.” 

Remy blinked. “Right, and he was the one that had you all done up- because he’d gone and gotten himself all enraptured in the exotic east. So what if he got himself a wife, or even a bastard?”

“I see what you are saying, but would his family not have a record of such a marriage or affair?” 

“Well, a good family wouldn’t like to admit it too much.” Remy shrugged. “But a half breed son that was sent to boarding school and only just got news for some reason? That’s the kind of drama people eat without salt.” he laughed. “Honestly, it’d liven their lives up, as long as you don’t make too many demands on their resources.” 

Roman thought about this, lips pursed. 

“Do you wish to be rid of me?” 

“Not at all.” Remy slung an arm around him and kissed his cheeks. “But it’s easier to get yourself settled if you have a proper background. And stealing one from the guy who stole you seems fitting.” 

Roman nodded, seeming relieved. 

“Besides that, pidge, if anything else from old Algernon Cairnhill’s collection shows up, we can arrange for it to come to you.” 

“Oh!” his eyes brightened. “Now  _ that  _ is a fine plan!” 

“Think you can pull enough details out of these to make it work?” Remy patted the journals. 

“If it gets me out of the house, I can certainly play the distressed displaced disgraced discarded bastard.”

“Delightful.” Remy retorted. “Ed’s mother is named Elenore. She married a Edward Gerald; frankly he’s probably the one you’d have to worry about. Mrs. Gerald is an absolute soppy romantic, and easy to influence at that…” they spent the rest of the night hashing out the plan. Roman found it far more interesting than the journals. 

One more dinner date with Ed to fish certain details- such as when his uncle died- out of him, and they went forward with the plan. It also put them in the right schedule for end of term at a boarding school- they’d even found one that had outright closed, so the records would be spotty at best; but well within the range of someone sending a slightly disgraceful son to school. Roman was only concerned with trying to present as learned. His knowledge was centuries out of date. 

“Don’t worry. As long as you have a basic grasp of who’s the top hound now, you’ll do fine. Just tell everyone you were studying history.” Remy assured him, making sure that his cravat was tied well. “We’ll go in tell our story and anyone who doesn’t buy it will be made to. Once Elenore is on our side, Ed will back us up. And lucky you, you’ll be considered too close to be a match for dear Miss Patrica.” 

Roman laughed. 

“She’ll find it terribly romantic herself, I’ve no doubt.” Remy continued. “Do you have a name for your fictional mother?”

“I’m going with Laurel.” Roman told him. “He had a good friend named Laurence in his journals, sometimes called Laurie, so I can use him as a basis for things they did.” 

“Beautiful. Let’s go.”

Despite the fact that it was his mother that they really needed to convince, Remy started with Ed. Remy sent enough of a message that he was coming that Ed was curious when they showed up at his workplace. Remy spun a delightful story of finding Roman on the docks, being lightly assaulted as he searched for the import business, hampered by the fact that he had the wrong name; looking for Cairnhill instead of Gerard. 

“It used to be Cairnhill, it was part of my mater’s dowry though, and hasn’t been since pater took it over.” Ed said, sitting them both down in his office. 

“I thought so-” Remy said cheerfully. “I remember your mother mentioning it in passing. Her family’d always had connections out that way.”

“Oh just army men and their how-do how-dos. Good for making connections for imports, tho.” Ed flapped his hand, and looked at Roman. 

“So how can I help you?” 

Remy grinned in a ‘wait till you hear this’ fashion, catching Ed’s eye briefly and tipping him just a bit into a suggestive mood. 

“I am seeking my aunt.” Roman lied smoothly. “My father mentioned her before, and since I did not receive word of his passing until my school closed at the end of term and I had no where to go, it was all that I had to go on. His name, and her name, and that his father had owned an import company.” he smiled winningly. “I am afraid my father did not exactly ‘loop me in’ often.” 

“Your father?” Ed asked, leaning forward.

“Algernon Richard Cairnhill.” Roman explained. 

“What?” Ed was amazed but clearly open to it. 

“He named me and paid for my education and the like. But as deeply he cared for my mother, I was something of a shame, I think. The boys at school certainly thought so.” 

“You’re my cousin?” 

“I am afraid I do take after my mother in looks.” he looked away, as if embarrassed. “But I do not have much else to fall back on; but the hope of the kindness of relatives.” 

Ed stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. 

“I don’t know about that, your eyes are the same color as my sister’s. And you’ve got the same hair as mater, well, less the greys. But those are my fault anyway.” he rubbed his chin. “Honestly, that explains a bit.”

“I have letters?” Roman offered. He’d written them himself in a copy of the copperplate from the journals. They had been carefully weathered to make them look years old. There was even a foreign certificate of a healthy birth from a doctor, all of which was fabricated. They’d had fun making things up. 

“Oh, I’m sure mater will want to see them, cuz, but… well then!” he clapped his hands. “That’s a right spot of plother isn’t it!” 

“I know!” Remy said excitedly. “It took me a bit to get the story out of him; but Roman’s a good chap, I’ve found.” 

“Lucky for you to be in the right place at the right time! Mother will be porked up a bit, but lord knows she’ll be glad to have something of her brother, even if it’s a surprise on this line.”

“Think it’ll be a bit of a nine days wonder?” Remy asked. 

“Eh, if we keep it wool-baffled. Don’t want to upset anyone.”

“That certainly isn’t my intention.” Roman offered. “If I am likely to be trouble-” 

“Oh no worries on that, cuz!” 

Remy was frankly amazed at how fast Ed had accepted it, influence or no. 

“Honestly, mater always suspected something of the sort, given how little Uncle Algie wrote about his personal life, but how firm he was about not getting set up. Honestly, a half-breed son is more pleasing than a blatant confirmed bachelor.” 

Remy couldn’t help it, he rolled his eyes. Roman just looked a bit confused. Ed hopped down from where he’d been perched on the edge of his desk, and came over, clapping a hand familiarly to Roman’s shoulder. 

“So I’m guessing it wasn’t a British school you went to?” 

Tipping his head, Roman smiled. 

“Well, not really no.” 

By the time Roman had told Ed his entire fabricated past, Ed fully believed it, and had already penned a note to his mother and sent it off, letting her know he’d be bringing guests for dinner. 

“I can’t wait to see their faces!” he said brightly. “What fun!” he poked at Remy, who was slowly sipping at a glass of whiskey. “You realise this is going to make Mater love you all the more.” 

“A date worse than breath, I’m sure.” he grinned. 

“Practically adopted.” Ed continued. 

“Shant happen.” Remy retorted. “I’m worse than a bastard and a confirmed bachelor combined.”

“How so?” Roman asked, genuinely curious.

“I’m French.” 

Like Ed, Elenore had taken to the story immediately, so fast and firm that Remy was boggled. As Ed had threatened she fawned on Remy’s rescuing her poor nephew and helping him find his way to them. Mr. Gerard looked a little more skeptical, but didn’t say anything. He looked at the letters and the birth record, but clearly the story bore out what he knew about his brother in law.

“Oh Laurie!” She had gasped at the story. “Algie would mention them from time to time and how they shared a home! Naughty boy, to never say they were more. Must have been a pretty thing.” She patted Roman’s chin. “That classical nose you have.” 

Over dinner Elenore offered to find Roman a flat somewhere, perhaps in the same building as Ed, until he got his feet under him. Roman managed to decline politely on his own, stating that he’d become fast friends with Remy and would stay his guest if Remy didn’t mind.

Which of course, Remy didn’t in the least. The lack of mindfuckery this masquerade called for was the best entertainment that didn’t involve food or fucking he’d had in years. And on a certain level, he’d miss Roman if he moved out just as they were able to talk. Maybe it was just the people he hung with, avoiding other vampires, but it was a little fun for Remy to talk to someone older than he was for a change, without having to hide it. Elenore was absolutely charmed by their friendship. She did promise to settle an endowment on Roman however, just a bit to help him get by. “Algie’s will was ancient, still listed me as the sole recipient.” Elenore sighed. “So wrapped up in his playing classical researcher he never provided properly for his own flesh and blood.” 

“I wouldn’t want to impose;” Roman assured her. 

“No imposition, it’s a small matter.” She sniffed thoughtfully. “I shall have to check my accounts; but no matter! You’ll come dine with us frequently?” 

“I… If you insist, it would be my pleasure.” 

“I do, I do!” she smiled brightly. “Now, dear, tell me what were you studying?” 

“Ah,” he glanced down at his plate. “It seems rather dull, but I was studying language and ancient history, Ma’am.” 

“Glory be,” Ed laughed. “It’s genetic!” 

“Hush Ed-” his mother scolded, even though she was smiling and Patrica was trying to hide a ladylike giggle. 

“I will admit,” Roman said, flashing a quiet but very charming smile. “That there was a certain level of hoping for positive attention in it; after all, if I could converse with him on a subject he loved, surely I would be something to be proud of.”

“So sweet!” Patrica giggled. 

“Such filial devotion.” Remy snorted into his wine. 

“It was what he loved most." Roman said defensively. “I intended to help him with translations.” 

Remy just leaned back and enjoyed the rest of the evening, watching Roman charm and utterly deceive his friend's family. Frankly, if he hadn’t known better, he might have almost believed Roman’s story. 

Several days later, ‘Roman Cairnhill’ received a letter. This being the first letter he’d received he was a little pleased with it, though he still wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the last name. 

“So what’s it say?” Remy asked. 

“It is from ah- Aunt Elenore’s solicitor. They need to know what bank I hold an account with. She has settled… sixty pounds a year on me?” He frowned. “Sixty pounds of what?” 

“Pidge are you having me on, or do you just not know what’s up with the bees and honey?”

“I know that pounds are a measurement of money.” Roman admitted, chuckling and looking slyly through his lashes at Remy. “But I don’t know if that’s any good?”

“Well, it’s not great. I mean, you couldn’t run a good house on it.” Remy admitted. “But that’s like ten pound a week, if you were batching it and don’t play the prostitutes and ponies too much, you’ll do fine.” 

“I do not have a bank, however. Or a solicitor.” 

“I’ll take you by mine when the light gets lower.” Remy offered. It was just past noon and a trifle bright for his taste. 

“I would appreciate that.” 

“You reckon you’re gonna be as long lived as me, Pidge?” Remy asked suddenly. “If so you should look to a secret account to plan again.”

“How long will you live?” Roman asked.

“Oh until I die.” Remy said idly, looking at his nails.

“I think I will live slightly longer than that, then.” he tipped his head and grinned back at Remy. 

“Cheek!” he laughed. “Though I suppose that isn’t a great measurement all things considered. Honestly, I think you’re considerably more dead than me.” 

“Bold words from a man who neither sleeps nor eats regularly.” Roman retorted. 

“I eat what I like the flavor of! My stomach will only digest so much food at one time. It’s not like it’s what sustains me.” he paused, and frowned. “You don’t even have a stomach!”

“I have a stomach!”

“It’s in a jar!” 

“It’s still mine!” They stared at each other for a long moment and burst out laughing. 

“What a conversation, pidge.” 

“Not exactly small talk, no.” Roman agreed, giggling a bit. 

“Hmm. you know the first thing we should do, now that you’ve got a bit of ready?” 

Roman perked up, curious. 

“We should go to a tailor, get you a nice suit made. You have the look of a humble scholar, with your made over things; but I think your aunt’d like to see you dressed with a bit of flash.” 

Roman beamed at Remy, and threw his arms around him in a delighted hug. 

“Oh wonderful! Not that the garments you’ve given me are bad, but I would like to dress well!” 

Remy laughed in return and returned the embrace. 

“You don’t mind using my tailor, do you? Understanding chap. Second nicest vampire I’ve met.” 

“Oh! I would love to meet another of your people!” 

“He’s not- well I guess you could say.” Remy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If he can’t take you on then he’ll know someone. Or we could ask Albert.”

“Oh no, it will be fine.” Roman assured him. “Really Remy, you are too kind to me.”

“Nonsense.” Remy grinned. “You’re  _ fun _ . I adore fun things. Let’s get you done up a dude.” 

Remy used the ten pounds he’d won off Reginald to start off Roman’s account. It wasn’t unlike what was expected of a vampire if they turned someone or found a young vampire abandoned. A kind lady who’d gone by Belle-Marié had done it for him when he’d first woken, feral and confused. She had been a darling, and even helped him polish his manners so that he could mix better with the upper ranges of society. She’d been the one who taught him that they paid less attention, and made less connections than the people of the working and farming class. 

A vampire lingering in a farming community would soon be found out, but a vampire on the town could cycle for years without garnering attention if they were careful, only needing to reset their identity now and again so that people wouldn’t realize they didn’t age. She’d taught him how to save, how to use his powers, and the rules that most vampires abided by. Even feral, Remy had only killed a handful of people, and all by accident. There was, Belle-Marié explained, no call for a vampire to kill anyone except in self defense. Go about it the right way, and they’d practically open their own veins for you. 

She’d given him a home, guidance, and a wardrobe, and he’d done whatever trifling thing she asked, guarding her sleep with his daystrong skills and soothing upset spouses until they had headed their separate ways. 

Remy had settled into the flighty arms of the dissipated young men of the upper class and hadn’t looked back. The wine was good, the company was oft times amusing and they didn’t pay attention to anything, sometimes on purpose. It was a good life, and he didn’t mind sharing it with Roman. After all, he wasn’t even in competition for food with him, which sometimes drove wedges into vampire friendships.

Well dressed and set up with a proper identity, Remy brought Roman out on the town with him. Ed greeted his cousin when they chanced on him at a wine hall, immediately talking up his poor sheltered bookish cuz, loose for the first time in the world. Remy was fairly sure that Roman was a great deal less drunk than he was acting, but didn’t say anything, as his ‘innocent’ suggestions led to hilarious shenanigans. 

It was made all the more funny when Ed’s mother scolded him for dragging his poor innocent cousin into trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which Remy and Roman run a mostly harmless grift
> 
> you're all welcome to bother me here https://monstrousroommates.tumblr.com/  
> or on my mainblog at https://thebestworstidea.tumblr.com/


End file.
